In the year 1832, the world beyond the dense forests of central India felt like a distant whisper. Here, in the small village of Nougrihi near the ancient ruins of Mahishnati, life clung to old ways like vines on crumbling stone walls. Superstitions ruled the days and nights—caste lines drawn sharp as knives, omens read in every shadow, and whispers of black magic that could twist a man's fate. Human sacrifices, offered in hidden groves to appease the earth for better harvests, were spoken of only in hushed tones, as if saying the words aloud might summon the wrath of unseen forces. The Yoro clan, guardians of these fading traditions, lived in mud-thatched huts clustered like wary sentinels, their lives a cycle of fear and ritual that no one dared question.
It was ten o'clock on a clear night, the full moon bathing the village in a silvery glow that promised peace. But peace was fragile in Nougrihi. In one hut, a low murmur of voices broke the stillness. Doors creaked open across the lane, one after another, as if the night itself had stirred. Siryu stepped out from his home, his face etched with worry lines deeper than the Narmada River's banks. He was a sturdy man in his thirties, a farmer bound by the clan's unyielding rules, his hands calloused from tilling soil that often gave back nothing but dust.
He knocked urgently on the neighboring door. It swung open to reveal Amma, a large woman with a commanding presence, her sari tucked for work, her eyes sharp from years of bringing life into a world full of shadows. "What happened?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with the weight of expectation.
"It seems like it's happening tonight," Siryu replied, his words tumbling out. "The pains started suddenly. Please, come quickly."
Amma nodded, her expression unchanging. "Okay... I'm going inside." She gathered her bundle of herbs and cloths, stepping into Siryu's hut where his wife labored in the dim light of a single oil lamp. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat and incense, burned to ward off ill omens. For about an hour, the village held its breath. Outside, a few neighbors lingered in the moonlight, exchanging glances—some hopeful, others wary, as if the birth carried more than just a new life.
Siryu sat on a low stool near the door, flanked by his father and grandfather. The old men smoked bidis, their faces weathered like the cracked earth after a drought. "Boy or girl?" his father mused, staring at the stars. "The clan needs strong hands for the fields. But a girl... she could marry well, strengthen ties."
Grandfather grunted, his eyes narrowing. "As long as no bad signs appear. Last birth in the lower huts... the child cried wrong, and the crops failed that year. Omens don't lie."
Siryu shifted uncomfortably, his mind racing. He loved his wife deeply, but the clan's expectations pressed on him like a heavy yoke. Caste rules dictated everything—who could share water, who led rituals, who bore the blame when things went wrong. He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the faint sounds from inside.
Then, cutting through the night like a knife, came the sweet, piercing cry of a newborn. Siryu's heart leaped. Happiness flooded his face, chasing away the shadows for a moment. The door opened, and Amma emerged, wiping her hands on her sari. A tired smile broke through her stern facade.
"Get ready for the treat, Siryu," she said. "It's a boy."
Relief washed over him. "A boy..." He stood, his legs unsteady.
Amma chuckled softly. "Go see your son soon. He's just like you—strong lungs, that one. And his eyes... they're like an angel's, so clear and piercing. They'll see right through the world."
Siryu rushed inside, his family following. The room was warm, his wife exhausted but beaming as she held the tiny bundle. He knelt beside her, peering at the infant—Kunal, they would name him later, after the clan's old tales of resilience. The boy's eyes fluttered open, wide and unblinking, reflecting the lamp's flame in a way that made Siryu pause. They did seem... different. Not just innocent, but knowing, as if already weighing the secrets of the hut.
Outside, the neighbors murmured. "A boy for Siryu—good omen," one said. But another, an elder from a higher caste lineage, frowned in the shadows. "Those eyes... too sharp for a newborn. Remember the old stories? Change comes with such signs, and change brings trouble." A faint rustle in the bushes nearby went unnoticed—a stray animal, or something else? The moon dipped behind a cloud, casting the village into deeper gloom.
As the family celebrated quietly, sharing sweets passed from hand to hand, a subtle unease lingered in the air. Whispers spread like smoke: Why did the cry echo so long? Was that a black cat crossing the path earlier? And those eyes—did they really gleam like that, or was it just the light? No one spoke it aloud, but in Nougrihi, fear was never far. This child, with his piercing gaze, might unravel threads no one wanted pulled.
Little did they know, Kunal's mind—already stirring in ways they couldn't fathom—would one day question the very foundations of their world. But for now, the night held its breath, hiding the storms to come.